Page 13

Men and women must be educated, in a great degree, by the opinions and manners of the society they live in.

—Mary Wollstonecraft

My decision to follow Rafi in secret wasn’t made in haste. In fact, I’d pondered it deeply for a week…seven days of treading lightly and wondering if and when the bootheel of Rafi Nasser would crush me. He was doing it on purpose, I knew. The cad seemed to enjoy keeping me on edge for his own twisted pleasure, and I’d had enough of it. Plus, he had started this game, after all, by having someone follow me in the first place.

The time had come to give him a dose of his own medicine.

Dressed in my favorite ensemble with a hat pulled low and my curls tucked away, I’d trailed him all the way to Covent Garden. I stayed in the hackney I’d flagged down, having paid the coachman a handsome sum to follow Rafi’s carriage at a careful distance. For some reason, I hadn’t wanted to use Brennan, despite his loyalty. This felt too personal. We’d just passed the Covent Garden Theatre on Bow Street, which was quite crowded for the evening hour, and I kept a sharp eye on Rafi’s coach.

When the carriage slowed and Rafi descended from inside, I frowned at the name of the tavern into which he’d disappeared. The Blue Dahlia Tavern. It was opposite the Drury Lane Theatre and boasted quite an ill repute that even I had heard of. Or rather, Nori had heard it, thanks to her loquacious and dissolute brothers, and filled us in.

I glanced down at my nondescript clothing—black breeches, dark shirt, plain coat, and a low-brimmed hat. My disguise might hold up in there, but one misplaced tug of my hat in a boisterous room of drunkards and my identity could be at risk. My bronze curls weren’t tightly secured underneath it. I gritted my teeth. I’d have to come back another time. I had just resigned myself to doing just that when Rafi emerged and reentered the carriage. Only, he wasn’t alone. He’d collected something—or rather, a female someone—and resumed his journey.

Knocking on the roof for the coachman to follow, I tried to ignore the spike of jealousy in my gut. I’d no right to any sort of possessiveness when it came to that particular gentleman…. My only goal here was to find any leverage on him since he knew of my secret identity. That was the sole reason for my interest.

Rafi was a notorious rake with a fast reputation. I knew better than to expect a leopard to change his spots, and I could hardly expect him to do so just because we’d shared one unexpected—and unexpectedly fiery—embrace. Lots of girls had probably enjoyed his kisses. Disgruntled, I let out a hiss and focused on where we were headed next. It turned out that his destination wasn’t far. This area seemed to be less rowdy than the one we’d left, though it was still indisputably London’s West End.

When Rafi descended the carriage steps, assisting his companion—who wore a crimson dress that was so snug in the bodice I wasn’t certain she was able to breathe—my jaw tightened, but I shoved whatever that feeling was far away. I had no time to be captious, or any right to be. She looked lovely, to be fair.

I paid the coachman, who bit the coin before pocketing it, and told him I’d have another for him if he waited. He studied me with narrowed eyes, assessing me for truth. I stared back at him. As if I would cheat the old codger, but this wasn’t exactly Mayfair. He finally nodded.

Keeping to the shadows, I followed Rafi and the woman at a discreet distance to a tiny square that included several buildings. He walked to a small structure with large, indistinct windows that seemed like a storefront, though it also appeared to be part of a residential building, considering the many windows above. Odd.

Did Rafi live here? But he lived in Mayfair in a very expensive residence a stone’s throw from mine. Suddenly, I felt confused and discomfited. Should I be following him? If this was indeed another residence, then I was invading his private affairs. Shoving down my discomfort, I firmed my shoulders. So what? He’d invaded my privacy first by interfering in my business.

This was war…and war meant trespassing boundaries. With renewed purpose, I waited a few minutes and then crossed the street, keeping my head low. I didn’t know what I would find, but if I waited long enough, I might catch him in some compromising position. One that I could use as collateral to make sure he kept my secret.

“You can do this,” I told myself in a low whisper right before I crept under the window and released a breath. I’d waited long enough for some propriety to be observed, though I hardly knew what that constituted in this instance. Rafi was alone with a beautiful woman. I wasn’t that sheltered to not know what went on between men and women behind closed doors.

Counting to ten while quashing all my guilty doubts, I stood up and peeked in. The glass was scratched and dirty, and it took my eyes a while to adjust, but what I saw was not what I had braced myself to see. I mean…the woman was scandalously undressed to her chemise and stockings while reclining on a chaise longue, but Rafi stood behind an easel where another woman in a plain blue dress was instructing him on some shading with a small brush. I had a clear view of the easel, and even through a scuffed window, Rafi’s talent was obvious.

He was painting ?

I’d known this was his passion, but it was common knowledge in the ton that his uncle had forbidden him to continue with such an “unpalatable, reductive” hobby. I stood there like a Peeping Tom and watched as the woman I assumed was an instructor moved away to adjust the model. Mesmerized by Rafi’s deft brushstrokes, the golden-brown paint highlighting the texture of the woman’s bare legs on the canvas, I felt the breath catch in my throat in complete awe.

Heavens, he was so good! I had not expected him to be. Like everyone else, I thought he only dabbled, but Rafi had real talent. His color and textures reminded me of Titian, an Italian Renaissance painter from the sixteenth century. The detail in his work was compelling, the lines of the model so fluid that he could have been a master painter himself. I was no art connoisseur, but I’d been to enough galleries with my mother to appreciate true skill.

And Rafi had it in spades.

My brain jumped back to the conversation we’d had at breakfast about mice in mazes, and for a sharp heartbeat, I wondered if Rafi had also been speaking about himself. He was caught in the same pattern that I was…desperate to find a way out by any means necessary and yet bound to our respective duties. He as a viscount’s heir, and me as a duke’s daughter.

I wanted to write and compose, to be allowed to have my own views, for my desires to matter.

And so did he.

I hadn’t realized that I was standing there like a frozen statue until a passerby, one who smelled like he’d drowned in a vat of gin, bumped into me, sending me careening into the window. The loud bang had three pairs of eyes peering up, one startling silver-gray pair in particular.

I didn’t wait to see whether he’d recognized me. I whirled and ran across the street to the waiting carriage, letting the door slam behind me as I caught my breath. The last thing I saw through the small carriage window was Rafi’s irate face as he scoured the streets. I slumped down against the squabs though I knew he couldn’t see me. Well, it was finished now.

And I knew his secret.

The fan in my hand was doing nothing to move the stale, hot air in the crowded ballroom. And even when I fanned harder, all I got was the stench of French oils and perfumes pervading the air. Hadn’t these people ever heard of a bath? Perfumes weren’t soap! But tell that to half of the overfed, overindulged aristocracy.

Mama had insisted I attend this ball, hosted by the Countess de Ros, Ela’s guardian and my mother’s cherished friend, and I knew that the directive had come from my father, who was relentless in his desire for me to choose a husband.

“One would think he wanted to get rid of me,” I’d grumbled earlier to my mother when we were climbing into our coach.

“He only wants to see you settled and cared for, Zenobia,” she’d replied. “It’s only what every father hopes for.”

“What about my happiness?” I’d shot back. “Doesn’t that count for anything?”

Her brows had risen. “What do you dream of, then?”

“I don’t know. Anything but this!” I’d said, unable to articulate my feelings and only seeing the looming trap of wedlock in front of me. “He doesn’t care about me being happy. He’d rather see me saddled with some old goat for posterity. To check some imagined action on a list so that it makes him feel like he has accomplished something.”

Mama had taken hold of my hands, her dark eyes kind but serious. “I know you’re upset, but complaining and grumbling will get you nowhere. Think about what it is you want. I’ve taught you this. In our lives, particularly as women, there is never a straight path, but that doesn’t mean the destination is unreachable.” She’d tapped my temple. “You simply have to use that powerful mind in that pretty head of yours and put it to work.”

“But he’ll give me no choice,” I’d replied in a small voice. “No matter how much I quarrel with him or try to come up with another solution. It’s pointless. I’ve thought this through, Mama!”

That keen gaze had glittered with a cunning intelligence. “Have you?”

Her words had sunk in during the carriage ride over. There had to be a way to get what I wanted in a manner that would satisfy my father…and my duty.

Muttering a curse as I stood near a potted fern that I hoped hid me, I groaned under my breath. I was counting the minutes until I could leave. Balls used to be fun, until they’d become a means to an end. A why-don’t-you-get-married-already kind of end. Mutinously, I pressed my lips together. I would have to be dragged to an altar kicking and screaming. And then I laughed at my hollow posturing. I’d never embarrass my family so publicly. It was the whole reason I was so worried about Rafi exposing me. Nothing I did could come back to my parents. Or my brother.

My eyes instantly darted to where Keston and Ela were dancing at the center of the ballroom, mooning at each other. With a sigh that might have been envy and a sip of my warm punch, I caught sight of Lalita dancing with some gentleman with a shock of white hair, who looked like he wasn’t long for a crypt. Good God, was she truly considering him? But then I noticed Sir Richard and his wife looking on with fervent, pleased eyes on the other side of the ballroom, and my heart sank. No doubt the man had to be titled. It was despicable that they’d use their own niece to elevate themselves.

Marriage was a transaction. I knew that. But it didn’t mean that I had to like it.

I wasn’t in need of a title, but I knew that my father would expect an appropriate match for someone of my station. Suddenly, I had the urge to run off with a footman and board the first ship bound to anywhere but England. No matter the wild fantasy, I could never do that. Duty was much too ingrained in the very marrow of my being. I tugged at the heavily embroidered bodice with its many dozens of seed pearls and cursed again.

“Such language isn’t quite ladylike, Lady Zia,” a low, butterscotch-rich voice chided, making my heart skip a treacherous beat.

I glowered, too hot to turn. “Go away, Mr. Nasser, or you’ll get a blistering you won’t soon recover from.”

I could almost feel his lip kicking up into that smirk. “Promise?”

My head swiveled. “What do you want?”

“A dance.”

“My dance card is full,” I said in the haughtiest voice I could manage.

“No, it’s not,” he said from behind me, that deep voice of his doing unnatural things, making my skin tighten and my breath hitch. Had it gotten ten degrees hotter, or was it just me? “You make up the names to avoid dancing with anyone you don’t know or like.”

I sputtered. How on earth could he know that? Was I so transparent?

Abruptly, I turned and was faced with Rafi Nasser in all his effortless elegance. With his height and athletic form draped in raven-black evening clothes, he was beyond gorgeous, the crisp white cravat heightening the warm light brown tones of his skin. His dark hair was brushed back from his face, the curling ends of the silky mass just touching his collar. His cheeks were clean-shaven, that hard jaw sharp enough to cut glass, and his eyes glittered like pools of mercury. Words failed me as I forced myself to breathe.

Could I stomach being that close to him?

Being held by him?

“No, thank you,” I clipped. “I don’t wish to waltz.”

His gaze brightened, the playfulness intensifying. “Why not? Afraid, Firefly?”

I bristled, probably just as he’d intended. With Rafi, everything was calculated, and I was certain this was, too. But I had some power now; we were even in the manipulation stakes. “You cannot trick me into agreeing, Mr. Nasser.”

“Fine, where’s the duke?” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “I’m not above persuasion. I’m sure he will have something to say about his daughter’s late-night proclivities.”

Was he trying to strong-arm me into dancing?

“And I’m sure your uncle will have something to say about your secret studio!” I shot back.

Surprise lit his eyes. Drat and blast. He hadn’t known it was me, and now I’d gone and let the cat out of the bag too soon.

He slid his hands into his pockets and smiled, leaning in so only I could hear, his warm breath brushing my ear. “Naughty of you to spy, Zia. Ah, but who has more to lose? A girl with a supposedly unimpeachable reputation…or a young man with a belittled, pathetic little hobby?”

I wanted to blurt out that his art was hardly a hobby and certainly the furthest thing from pathetic from what I’d seen, but Rafi was the enemy here. I didn’t need to shore up that enormous ego of his. Gritting my teeth, I glared mulishly at him. “Perhaps you’re right. I’ll just find Viscount Hollis and inform him of his nephew’s whereabouts and how he’s arrogantly disobeying his edict.”

A muscle flexed to life in that lean jaw, and I had to contain my own rush of victory, but it didn’t last long. “What will it be, Zia?” he said in a soft, velvety voice that didn’t fool me in the least. “Will you leave me standing here like a sad wallflower, or shall I drop to one knee and beg for your favor?”

He wouldn’t, the wretch! The gossip would be untenable. But his eyes gleamed in devious challenge, and I realized that of course he would…just to prove his point. We glowered at each other in a battle of wills until, finally, I let out an airy laugh as if he was so far beneath me I couldn’t even see him.

“Fine, have your dance if you’re going to be such a brat about it,” I said. “Can’t have the uncatchable Rafi Nasser seem like he’s begging for scraps on his knees, can we?”

“That mouth of yours will get you into trouble,” he said, but he extended his arm like the gentleman he pretended to be. Underneath all those good looks and charm was a thorough rogue to the bone.

“Were you trouble the other night?” I shot back, and his gaze darkened. The double-edged innuendo was clearly a mistake…as suddenly, all I could think about was our ill-fated kiss.

And then we were on the floor, the strains of music beginning. Rafi’s right hand slid around my back while my left hand rested on his shoulder, and we clasped hands. A foot of space separated us and yet it felt like an inch…and dwindling. I could not swallow a single sip of air.

“Breathe, Zia,” he whispered, and at his words, the sudden rush of air into my lungs made me gasp.

“What?” I panted.

“You were turning blue,” he said, moving me gently into the first turn, much more gently than I deserved after our little spat. “Why were you holding your breath? Should I assume that I smell dreadful, and you were trying to save yourself??”

I shook my head at his small joke, still trying to regulate my breathing. Could I admit that I was afraid of what dancing with him would mean? That everyone, and I mean everyone in the room, was looking at us? Some girls with envy, others with anger as though I’d stolen something from them that was never theirs to begin with. I could empathize—it was how I’d felt when he’d been with the woman in the scarlet dress in Covent Garden.

“I didn’t eat any supper,” I lied, and focused on not tripping over my own feet, or his. Usually, I was a graceful dancer, but all my skills, it seemed, had completely deserted me.

We remained quiet for the next few one-two-three beats of music, and I felt my body flowing and ebbing with his as if we’d waltzed together a thousand times. So many guests weren’t even hiding the fact that they were ogling us, and the gossip would be flying about the ballroom by now. Rafi was very eligible, but he certainly wasn’t the type to waltz. At least, I’d never seen him with anyone. We’d danced together a time or two before, but never this dance, which was scandalous by any standards, given how close the partners stood. Twelve inches wasn’t much distance at all, and the press of his fingers at my back felt so…intimate.

“This is the first time we have waltzed,” I said.

I could feel his stare, but I kept my gaze on the diamond stickpin winking from his cravat. “Yes.”

“Why did you want to?”

“Because I’ve always wanted to,” he said softly, and I nearly stumbled to an undignified halt in the middle of the dancers. “You can’t deny there’s something between us, Firefly,” he said as we turned and clasped arms into a sideways circle. That time, I really did stumble, and it was only by his quick reaction that he saved me from falling onto my behind in an indecorous heap and being the laughingstock of the season. I was completely stuck on the second part of Rafi’s confession. I gaped at him even as my pulse tripped. This had to be some elaborate trick.

“Yes, years of bickering.” It was the only reply I could manage.

“And friendship,” he said when I’d found my feet again, though proper brain function was taking longer to return the more he spoke. I glanced up at him. His face remained neutral as if all he had on his mind was this dance. I realized that was for everyone else watching us. I frowned. How much of Rafi was this mask of insouciance he wore? It was second nature to him, whereas I was certain that my every emotion remained transparent to all.

“You don’t even like me,” I bit out. “You’ve said that in no uncertain terms. That I was nothing more than the bratty sister of your best mate.”

“Two years ago.” A muscle flexed in his jaw. “And things change. People change.”

Evidently, my mind was too baffled to function—I’d somehow blinked and ended up in an alternate reality where Rafi Nasser was insinuating that he’d caught feelings. For me. When the music ended, he drew me out onto the balcony. I went without protest, considering I was still in shock. A spontaneous kiss was one thing, but I did not want to get my heart trampled upon.

I caught sight of some of the stares and knew that tongues would be wagging, but at least there were other people out here taking in the air. We wouldn’t descend into the gardens, where couples often disappeared for a tryst. That would be beyond scandalous, though a part of me was deeply curious about what happened behind all those hedgerows.

What happens in the arbor stays in the arbor. I stifled a giggle. Clearly my brain had not caught up with good sense. I coughed politely.

“Mr. Nasser—”

Rafi turned to face me. “Before you push me away, hear me out. I want my uncle off my back as much as you want your father off yours. We can help each other.”

“By pretending to court?” I asked.

“Who said it’d be a pretense?” he countered, and my heart fluttered. “We would simply be getting to know one another, as we have been.”

I lifted a brow. “Whereupon I act out, and you follow and try to talk me out of it?”

Rafi grinned, the smile crinkling his eyes. “Naturally.”

My amusement guttered. “What about Keston? He won’t like it.”

“This isn’t about him,” Rafi insisted.

True. But I knew my brother, and he was aware of his best friend’s rakish exploits. Keston would be furious if he got wind of the courtship. Still, I mulled over the idea. My mother’s words chose to come back to me at that moment. Had I truly exhausted all the options? Because this was an option I hadn’t considered…being courted by someone I could be marginally fond of.

Fine. More than fond.

As if he could sense my almost capitulation, Rafi took hold of my hands. “Give me a chance, Zia, that’s all I ask.”